when it rains

she is only sadness
and
touch me with long seaweed fingers

that night revive memories

write she says
write as the sky flows into the ocean
and
ocean shores sing the poems of Lorca

write as
shells collect eternity sound closed in death
as the wave comes
like water snakes to share your ruffle

Ulysses has aged
and
Joyce still drink beer in the same pubs
with the same speckled woman
on knee

it rains

I lift my black glass of absinthe
towards the mouth
proposing to delete crucified day on the window corner
her hot steam passed in an instant

write as
narrator deplores the scarcity of grace
listening to sad flight of beetles
around hazel stick
teaching you turning into despair

the
time as the mold on the house shingles
in your embers eyes

give me a hand just so we will return to
God of departure
you fall inward
I leave my mouth to seek shelter
on your neck were light blooming
I touch you only with the tender of imagination
and covers up your soul
from love toward hatred

what can I do

I light my hands
and not gonna end the poem

we repeat the ritual of pleasure
whenever rain fills up our palms
whenever I pass gates between the ankle
among branches wet spin

when dusk bleeds
I bow to me when I do not find you

the pain go through my body like a saint

not
today you will go not
to rubbing sand
you will not go away
shaken the wind